


On My Knees

by TwistedDaughter



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Canon-Typical Violence, Crime, Fluff and Angst, I really hope not, M/M, Might be OOC, Not Beta Read, Not kinky amputation, Post-Reichenbach, Rating May Change, Romance, Serial Killers, Slow Build, just a bit of Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-11-23
Packaged: 2017-12-28 11:18:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/991419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TwistedDaughter/pseuds/TwistedDaughter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It has been three years since the fall and Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are united again. Solving crimes and taking names. However, a kidnapping gone wrong has left John with one less limb and it takes some time for him to adjust. Will Sherlock be able to help his friend? And will their relationship last or be made stronger because of it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Kidnapped?

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first fic and I would really appreciate feedback of any kind. I want it to be scientifically accurate so if anything is amiss, please let me know. Also, this is not been beta tested so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

John Watson felt cold. Why did he feel cold? He was certain that he had made it back to his flat the night before. And why couldn't he move his arms?

Opening a tentative eye, Doctor Watson surveyed his surroundings. The walls and floor were bare and grey. Concrete. He was sitting upright against one of the four walls however his arms were firmly tied behind his back. A frustrated groan escaped his lips. Kidnapped. 

An army vet with time spent in Afghanistan, having avoided capture there, was now at the mercy of some thug in London.

But why? He had been minding his own damn business, keeping up at the clinic, treating patients as he normally did. He had been avoiding Scotland Yard for fear of bringing up painful, happy memories. 

It had been almost three years since Sherlock had fallen. Three long, lonely, dreary years. John couldn't sleep for months. 

Think. What happened last night? John tried to place himself the night before. He had gone to the pub again for a few drinks after work. He didn't want to be in the flat any longer than he had to but, for some reason, he couldn't bring himself to move out. Not that he had the funds to do so anyway. He was barely there, staying with the current girlfriend or Harry. It had crossed his mind once or twice to wonder about who was paying the rent but decided that he didn't really care.

Not a lot mattered to John anymore. 

Anyway, he remembered stumbling into the flat at around 1:30 AM. And then....

A jolt to the back of the head! He had been knocked unconscious by an unknown assailant. Great.

He wasn't afraid. What was the worst that could happen? 

The large, metal door, which had blended into the grey surroundings, opened slowly. "Guess I’m about to find out," he muttered to himself.

A stocky male walked through the door. His face was scarred and ugly, clearly a survivor of some trauma. Perhaps war? He almost looked familiar. Had John fought alongside him? It didn't matter. He had taken John hostage. 

After looking about, the man locked eyes with the doctor. A grim smile made it’s way across his horrible face. “So, here we are.” His voice was low and gravelly, a northern accent was able to be made out. “The famous lackey of the famous detective.” 

_Lackey? I was not his lackey._ John may have been captured but that didn't mean he wasn't capable of being slightly offended. 

“So...where am I?” Observing the man, John noticed the gun in his right hand. This was not going to end well.

“As if you don’t know, my dear doctor.” The man gave a slick smiled that made John wish his hands were free to punch him.

“Actually, I really don’t. I don’t know who you are either. Why am I here?” All the good man wanted was to be home, sleeping off his hangover. Or maybe it was the blow to the head that was making it hurt. Either way, the empty flat was much more preferable compared to where ever this was. He had tea at home.

“I brought you here for questioning. Surely you can guess why?” 

“Nope, nope, afraid not.” Casual indifference. No better way to piss off an armed villain. John felt the urge to smirk, but kept it hidden behind a passive face. 

“Tell me where Sherlock Holmes is.”

Now that surprised Doctor Watson. Sherlock was long dead. It had been two years, eleven months and...three days since he was confirmed dead. Not that John had been keeping track. Not at all.

“Sherlo...He’s dead.” John could feel bile rising in his throat, unable to finish the name. He had not spoken his friend’s name since that day at the grave. 

“That’s not what I've heard. Now, tell me where he is. Surely his lap dog would know.”

“I am not his lap dog!” John’s face grew hot with anger and slight embarrassment. But mostly anger. Taking a deep breath, he tried to make his face impassive once more. “I was not his lap dog. He is very much dead.” A prickling feeling could be felt in his eyes. The room must be very dusty.

Anger could be seen on the kidnappers face. Clearly, he was being lied to. Heavy steps could be heard coming closer, the gun being cocked. “I’ll ask you one more time. Where is Sherlock Holmes?”

The response he got was unexpected. On both ends. 

“I’m right here.” 

Unfortunately, it came a fraction too late. The gun had gone off and the bullet...The bullet had pierced straight through John Watson’s knee.


	2. A Not So Pleasant Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After waking up in the hospital, John is greeted by two new developments to his life. One more easily accepted than the other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I would really like feedback on this chapter. It is a bit longer than the first and if anything is amiss, please feel free to tell me. Again, this has not been beta tested and I am very much not British so if I have anything wrong, I apologize. I tried to research the best I could.

The room was bright behind the lids of John's eyes. A soft beeping sound could be heard, along with what sounded like light snoring. Who was snoring? It certainly wasn't John.

Opening his eyes just a squeak, John looked around what appeared to be a hospital room. There was light coming in through the blue curtains, probably late afternoon, and John could feel an IV sticking into his arm. He had a light blue blanket pulled up to his waist. 

_Why am I here,_ he thought. Last thing he remembered he was sitting on a cold, concrete floor, a madman with a gun aimed at his leg, and a voice. Sherlock’s voice. But...that was impossible. A loud snort jerked him away from his thoughts.

Turning to his right, he saw a man, long coat, dark blue scarf, long mop of dark curls. It couldn't be. 

“Sherlock?!” 

The man jolted to his feet, looking slightly out of place, as though he couldn't figure out his surroundings. Then, his eyes spotted John, a tentative smile crossing his face.

“Hello there, John.” 

Taking a step forward, Sherlock looked into the eyes of his old flat-mate, his colleague, his only friend. He wasn't sure how he expected John to react but clearly, judging by the other man’s face, it was going to be painful.

“Sherlock,” John’s voice carried softly. “Would you come over here?”

Not two seconds after Sherlock got within arms reach, a hand grabbed his scarf and a fist made contact with his face.

“What the hell?! You are supposed to be dead!” John was unable to control his temper, his voice loud in the quiet hospital room. “Where the bloody hell have you been?! Do you have any idea how long it’s been? And here you are like it’s nothing at all?!”

Sherlock wanted to say something but he couldn't think. He had expected John to be mad but this....this was more than he had bargained for. “I just saved your life...” 

“And you expect me to thank you, I suppose. Well, thanks. Unfortunately, I have been dead for just as long as you have.” Not fully aware of what was being pumped into his system, John assumed it was messing with his head. There was no way he would have been able to tell Sherlock that otherwise. His vision began to swim in front of him, red and blurry due to rage and tears. 

Sherlock didn't know how to respond to that. His face grew taut, like a child being scolded for something he felt was justified. “I know you’re upset. But really, John, do you have to be so dramatic.”

“Dramatic?! Sherlock, you were my best friend. After you jumped, as you hit the pavement, my heart stopped with yours. Or,” he looked disgusted, “how yours should have stopped.” 

“It has been three years, Sherlock. THREE GODDAMN YEARS!” His face, blotchy and tear-stained. “I have been a zombie. I tried to forget you, to forget our time together. I tried to move on. Went on dates and engrossed myself in work at the clinic. But, in the back of my mind, you were always there. Commenting on the woman of the evening, how dull she was, or how the patient at work hadn't actually burned his hand on the kettle, it had been an illegal firework, or some other nonsense. I couldn't escape you. It was driving me mad. And now, just as I was almost rid of you, this happens. You come waltzing into my life, acting like nothing has changed. Everything has changed, Sherlock. Everything. Including...” his voice hushed. “Including me.”

A look passed between the two men, silent. Then, the anger faded slightly into relief, as if a weight had been lifted off of John’s shoulders. “I’m glad you’re alive, Sherlock. But really, I would like you to leave. Right. Now.”

Sherlock’s face, previously closed off and impersonal, dropped to a look of fear. John didn't want him here? Had he really buggered up that bad? “But...John...”

“I just want to be alone for a bit Sherlock. Come back later, then we’ll talk.” He gave a piercing look to the other man, telling him this wasn't finished, not by a long shot. Sherlock nodded. “I’ll just....” Words escaped him. That was new. Very rarely did he not have something to say. 

Quietly, Sherlock exited the room. 

John sighed. He was, of course, glad that Sherlock was not dead. If he was to be honest with himself, he’d been praying to God every night that Sherlock would come back. Not that he would be honest. Not about something as embarrassing as that. 

Something occurred to him. He was in the hospital but he didn't know why. _Shouldn't have sent Sherlock away before getting that information,_ he thought to himself. Well, he was a doctor, surely he could figure it out. 

He didn't have any bandages around his upper body, just as he had expected. He had been hit on the head, but there had been no blood or trauma. Then he remembered. The gun shot. His hand steady, John lifted the blanket. And that’s when he saw it. Or rather, didn't see it.

His left leg, from just above the knee, was gone.

Many emotions passed through his mind. Sadness, acceptance, fear. Yes, his leg was missing. Yes, he would need a replacement. Yes, he should be angry about this. But anger was not one of the emotions. In fact, the emotions left just as quickly as they had come. 

Feeling exhausted, he laid his head back against the pillow, cool against his face. His eyes closed shut and he just breathed. It had been a long time since he had seen his best friend and he was happy about it. He was still angry, yes, but he felt a small blip of happiness forming in his chest. 

He also felt a bit sick. As though he had ran a marathon without eating or drinking anything for twenty-four hours. Although, he thought, that could be from my missing leg. A dark laugh escaped from his throat and he slowly fell into a deep sleep.

Sherlock was pacing around the waiting room, several nicotine patches on his arm. This was certainly a three patch problem. John had looked so angry when he had seen him. Sherlock knew he would be angry but that punch was not something he expected. His face was still hurting.

But behind those angry eyes, Sherlock had seen something more. He had seen that John was happy to see him. He saw how his shoulders had relaxed a bit, how he sat up just a tiny bit straighter. Not that awkward way he did when John was uncomfortable, but when he was glad. 

Sherlock, lost in his thoughts, had not heard the footsteps approaching him. “So, how is the patient,” a smug voice inquired.

Whirling around, Sherlock locked eyes with his brother. “What are you doing here, Mycroft?”

Seemingly unaffected by the venom in his younger brothers voice, Mycroft responded. “I am worried about John Watson, of course.” His face appeared indifferent, but Sherlock could tell that Mycroft was at least somewhat telling the truth. It was in his eyes that held honesty. 

Sherlock sighed, tired and absentmindedly rubbed his cheek. “I know that’s not the only reason, so spit it out. I’m really not in the mood to talk.”

Looked over at his younger brother Mycroft noticed how thin he appeared, his hair long and greasy, his coat dusty, and his scarf slightly askew. That could be attributed to the punch he had sustained due to John, the bruise on his face very obviously new. “You should not have given yourself away so easily.”

That earned Mycroft a harsh glare. “And what, let him die? That thug had been the last man on my list, I could not have saved John without outing myself in the process.” 

“Believe it or not, I had the situation under control. No harm would have come to Doctor Watson, had you not interfered.” It was now Mycroft’s turn to glare.

“You...had people looking out for John?” 

“Of course. Once I knew you would be back, I had no desire to try and explain to you why he would not be welcoming you home. If he had died, you would have lost control completely. And I would lose my brother for the second time in my life.” Mycroft’s face was hard, but his eyes were soft. It had hurt him greatly after Sherlock had jumped from the building. He really did believe he was gone. Until a certain mortuary worker told him otherwise, a month later. Really, that girl was terrible at keeping secrets from the Holmes brothers.

Looking slightly uncomfortable with the topic at hand, Sherlock took a glance around the waiting room. It was sterile, as all waiting rooms are, a rack of magazines in the corner and several highly uncomfortable chairs placed along the walls. It smelled of rubbing alcohol and the infirm.

Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other. “This place makes me uncomfortable.”

“Yes, I suppose it would, seeing as how the people here are not yet dead.” A smirk played on Mycroft’s face, slightly enjoying being able to harass his brother once more.

“Will John ever forgive me?”

Now, that question shocked the older brother. Usually, Sherlock did not care about forgiveness. If someone didn’t like what he had done, they could bugger off and leave him be for the rest of his days. Apparently, John was not one of those people. 

“If given the time, I’m sure he will. John Watson is loyal to a fault, sometimes foolishly so. I expect that you will be back within his good graces by the end of next month, if you play your cards right.”

“And what does that mean?”

“It means that you will need to be on your best behavior. And be thoughtful to the fact that John has just lost his left leg.” His voice was low and dangerous. John Watson had been the best thing to ever happen to his brother and he did not want Sherlock to mess that up.

A pained look crossed Sherlock’s face as the realization hit him. It had been his fault. He had startled the thug, had given him a reason to shoot. And at that close a range, of course major damage would be done. Luckily, Sherlock had been standing in front of a chair, because his legs had just given out on him. 

“Ah. I see you have discovered your part in the predicament.” He did not sound smug, simply saddened by the way Sherlock’s face had crumpled as he hit the seat. 

“It’s my fault John will never live a normal life.” He willed his voice not to shake, not to give his brother any ammo. 

Mycroft scoffed. “Well, of course he will never lead a normal live. He has chosen to live his life with you, for the time being. It has always been your fault, you clot.” Sherlock looked up at this insult. His face was white but composed. “Do you think he will stay with me?”

“I can’t see why not. All his stuff is still at the flat. Along with all your belongings. Though,” he added, thoughtfully, “I think Mrs. Hudson has your skull hidden somewhere.” 

This caused Sherlock to bark out a laugh. “She would see fit to steal it. Always knew she was sentimental.”

After a few, rare laughs were shared by the Holmes brothers, Mycroft left, leaving Sherlock time to think about how he was going to deal with John when he next saw him. Maybe, just maybe, everything would work out.


	3. Answers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock have a conversation over tea and eggs. Sherlock has the answers to questions that John needs to ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, here we are. I would like to encourage everyone to comment and give me helpful tips. Or just say you liked it or hated it. Anything would be helpful.

When John awoke, it was early morning. The sun had not yet made it in through the windows but the hospital room was still light. Covering his mouth, he attempted to stifle a yawn. How long had he been asleep? 

It took exactly three seconds before John remembered where he was and why. Three blissful seconds to enjoy waking up from a deep and peaceful sleep. 

It was a weird sensation, not having a left leg. It didn't hurt, since there was nothing to hurt. How do you explain nothingness? John certainly couldn't. He had known men from the army that lost limbs. They claimed to be able to feel pain where there was none. Phantom limbs. He vaguely wondered if he would experience that. 

His stomach felt hollow, not being able to recall when he last ate. It must have been at the pub two nights ago. As if on cue, a loud grumble was heard. He was indeed hungry. A button had been placed on a table nearby to call for a nurse. Picking it up he turned it in his hand a little, wondering if his hunger was really that urgent. A loud growl told him it was.

After a few minutes, a woman in a nursing uniform arrived to his room. Her face was soft, with large, brown eyes and thick, red curls framing it. She seemed to be in her mid-thirties and John considered flirting with her. That is, until he saw the simple wedding band on her left hand.

“Mr. Watson? How can I help you?” Her voice was pleasant and kind, but still professional.

“Yeah, I...I was wondering if I could get a spot of tea and some breakfast? If that’s all right?”

“Certainly.” She turned on her heel and headed for the door. “Also,” she spoke, turning back her head to face him, “your friend has been in the waiting room all night. Would you like me to send him in?”

Sherlock had waited all night in the hospital? That was unexpected. “Um...yeah, that would be fine.”

She bustled out of the room and images of Sherlock ran through his head. Of Sherlock pacing in the waiting room, sitting in the chairs, most likely at weird angles. He must have been extremely bored all night. It was doubtful that he had slept at all.

His thoughts all a jumble, John didn't take notice to the person that entered the room. A soft cough alerted him and he turned to face the door. “Sherlock.”

“Hello again.” Sharp features and soft eyes faced the doctor. Johns eyes passed over the figure, examining all he could. The eyes were bloodshot, tired, but kind, his lips chapped and curved up into a tentative smile, and his hair longer than it had been, pulled back in a ponytail with soft curls framing his face. John found that strange but decided not to comment on it.

John motioned to the chair on the right of his bed. “Sit,” he commanded.

Crossing the room and staying out of arm's length, Sherlock plopped down into the chair and sat with his back stiff. “John, I....”

“Don’t, Sherlock. Just don’t. I don’t want your excuses. I’m going to ask you questions and you are to answer truthfully. Do you understand?” His voice was hard but not mean, like a father disciplining his son.

“Yes,” Sherlock affirmed, nodding his a bit too quickly. He wanted nothing more than for John to forgive him and if this is what it took, then he would answer a thousand questions.

“Okay. So...” he inhaled slowly. “Why...how...are you...not dead?”

“It was an illusion. A trick. Molly helped put it together. In the end, the body you saw, the body that was buried, was a...stunt double, I suppose. A cadaver that Molly had already worked on. A John Doe no one would miss.”

John looked a little pale but nodded. It seemed wrong to use another persons body for a trick but he was not going to explain the morality of that right now. 

“Why did you fake your own death?”

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and his eyes softened a bit more. “Moriarty, he was going to...kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. He said he was going to ‘burn the heart out of me.’ And by destroying the three people I care about most, that was how he was going to accomplish it. I...I couldn't let that happen. I had to die.” There was a pleading look in his eyes. “I couldn't live, if I knew you wouldn't be by my side.”

John felt as though he had been punched in the gut. It could have been the lack of food though. His vision blurred for a second and he felt slightly sick. Someone had been after him? And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade? “What about Mycroft?”

A low laugh was heard from Sherlock. “Like anyone could get close enough to murder the bastard. No, Moriarty knew who to target to get the proper response.”

The room suddenly seemed a bit too warm for both men but neither fidgeted. It was a tense few moments before the nurse returned with two trays of food and tea. “Thought your friend would like to eat something as well,” she answered the unspoken question with a smile. Sherlock merely grunted in thanks while John properly thanked her for her kindness.

“Sherlock, you should eat. You seem...not good.” John had his doctor face on, giving Sherlock the once over. He could see that his shirt was much looser than it had once been and his cheekbones were more prominent. His skin had a pallor and looked as though he hadn't showered in days. Maybe longer. “For me?”

Sherlock glared but stuck his plastic fork into the eggs that had been provided, a sour look on his face.

They ate in silence for a few moments, John contemplating what Sherlock had said and Sherlock looking at John with calculating eyes. He had also noticed that John did not look as healthy as he once did. He had more wrinkles around the forehead and under the eyes. His hair was more grey than it had once been. He looked skinnier as well, as though he had not been eating properly. 

“So, you had to fake your death for our safety. Fine. But what have you been doing the past three years?” Johns mouth was full of toast, crumbles slightly spilling out the sides.

“I was severing the ties of Moriarty's network. Taking out the trash, so to speak. And the man that captured you, James Thorston, was the last thug on the list. Unfortunately, he had heard a rumor that I was still among the living.” Sherlock grimaced at the thought. 

“So, of course, he thought that you knew where I was. He hadn't been told that Moriarty was dead and Thorston was looking for a way to rise in the ranks.”

“What happened to him at the...warehouse? Was it a warehouse?”

A twisted grin emerged on Sherlock’s face. “He won’t be troubling anyone. Best not to worry about it.” 

John wanted to laugh. A sick, cruel laugh. The bastard deserved what he got. “I suppose that I’m lucky for only losing a leg. So...thanks.” A small smile played on his lips as he looked down into his cup of tea. He didn't see the tiny look of shame that flickered across his friend face.

“Anyway, I guess this means you’ll be coming home then?” John tried not to look hopeful. Despite how mad he was at Sherlock, he couldn't bare to return to the flat alone. Not with the current state he was in. It had been a nightmare for him to walk around with his leg, as damned as it was. Without it...it would be nearly impossible, at least at first. 

“Yes. I’ll be returning 221B. If that's what you want?” 

“Yeah, that’s...fine. Just fine.” Sherlock noted a slight reddening of Johns ears but did not comment on it. _Best behavior_ a voice whispered in his mind, sounding frustratingly like Mycroft. 

A comfortable silence passed between the two men, John sipping his tea and Sherlock simply looking at John. It was almost as if things were back to normal.

“We aren't back to normal, Sherlock. I’m still very upset with you. However,” he paused, considering his words. “I think...I think we are...closer to normal than we could be.” A smile slowly crept to his face. Sherlock returned the smile, uncertain and timid. When was Sherlock ever uncertain or timid? It made John slightly uncomfortable.

What had Sherlock gone through, during the time he was “dead”? An image of Sherlock, cold and tired, bundled up in coat to try and keep warm while chasing the bad guys entered John’s head. He couldn't have been having fun the entire time. It must have been hard.

“What happened to you, Sherlock?”

That melted the smile off his face quickly, his stone persona replacing it. “I don’t want to discuss that right now.”

It must have been horrible. “Well, if you ever need to talk to anyone about it....”

A curt nod was all that was given. Sherlock was never one to talk about his feelings. Emotions only weighed him down. John reached out and placed a firm hand on his knee. “I am glad that you’re here.”

Sherlock placed his hand over John’s. “So am I.”


	4. Staying Still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks spent in the hospital and John has more questions for Sherlock and Sherlock examines the patient.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woah, what's this? Another chapter? Yup. Anyway, again, feedback would be wonderful. This has not been beat read so all mistakes are mine and mine alone. I know this is moving really slowly but it gets better, I promise.

It was a full two weeks before John was allowed to return to 221b. He knew that they needed to make sure the amputation was clean and healing properly but that didn't help the boredom. Luckily, Sherlock was there everyday. It almost seemed as if he never left. It was the fourth day before John asked.

“Sherlock?” John stared at his friend after flipping through the channels on the telly for a couple minutes, settling on a silly talk show. “Have you... have you been at the hospital this whole time?” 

Sherlock shifted in his seat, his eye averted from John's. “I...may have overstayed my welcome, if that’s what you mean?” 

“No, I don’t mind you being here. Though it is sort of strange after not seeing you for so long. Where have you been getting clean clothes from?”

Indeed, Sherlock had been wearing a different outfit every day that John had seen him. His hair had also been washed, though still long. “Mycroft, of course. Do you want me to go?”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant.” John raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “I was just curious, is all.”

Sherlock snorted but said nothing further on the subject, still averting his eyes and shifting in his seat, his hands flexing on the armrests.

“Relax Sherlock. I know you don’t like hospitals. You can go home if you want, I’ll be able to leave in a few more days.”

At this, Sherlock clasped his hands in his lap and stared directly at John. “I am not going to leave you here by yourself. Who knows what they might do to you? Besides, it’s not a ‘few more days.’ It’s at least another week. Not going to risk you coming home and getting an infection.”

Noting Sherlock’s mildly erratic expression, John simply nodded and filed that look away for a more in depth questioning later. Maybe after he had Sherlock drunk. The idea of a drunk Sherlock caused John to giggle, upsetting the detective even further. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing, nothing. Don’t worry about it.” A few more giggles popped out but he was able to calm himself down shortly after.

As the days dragged by, John had been forced to walk around the hospital corridors with only one leg and a pair of crutches. This was of course necessary, but humiliating. He was still in his gown, a flush clearly visible from the neck up. Sherlock had made no comments but looked rather sullen after the first walk around and John couldn't figure out why.

He was even fitted for a prosthetic leg though, according to the staff, it could be upward of a month before John even got to use it. Sherlock had snorted at this and quickly pulled out his phone, no doubt texting the British government. Mycroft would see to it that John got his new leg within the next week.

Sherlock had finally left to grab clean clothes for John. John had only gotten clean underwear and he was pretty sure that Mycroft sent those. They'd still been in the packaging. He certainly didn't want to be seen walking around outside in this hospital gown. The time alone was spent thinking. What was life going to be like now, with Sherlock here and one of his legs missing?

Sherlock being back was a good thing, certainly. But would they go back to solving crimes for the Yard? Did the people there even know that Sherlock had returned? Lestrade certainly knew, he'd visited earlier that week. He looked the same, though his face had maybe a few more lines. Stress, most likely.

Was Sherlock going to be running off again immediately? That thought caused John's throat to constrict, making the act of breathing a challenge. _I wouldn't be able to go with him,_ the thought crossed his mind. Sure, he could go to crime scenes but he'd be in no shape to chase after criminals. Yes, he knew that there were many people out there using artificial limbs to run and jump, but would he be able to learn to do that? He wasn't as young as he once was. He was, however, determined. 

Breaking free of his thoughts, John leaned back against the pillow, feeling tired once again. _It’ll be nice to sleep in my own bed again._

The door banged open, making him jump. “Sherlock, can’t you enter a room like a normal person for once?”

“Normal is boring,” he scoffed, throwing a pair of trousers, an undershirt, and a jumper on to the bed. He walked around to his normal chair and sat down. “You have the most...interesting selection of jumpers, John.”

John had already taken off his gown and began to put the pants on. “I happen to like my jumpers, thank you very much.” He glanced up, shooting Sherlock a glare, when he noticed the detective looking away from him once again, his cheeks slightly pink. “Sherlock, why are you...oh!”

John had his upper body exposed, his scar clearly visible. Sherlock had never seen it before, despite the two living in such close quarters for so long. “You know, I don’t mind if you look at it. I’m sure you'd find it interesting.” 

The detective looked up into John’s face, almost as though asking for permission. John nodded and Sherlock stood up quickly and closed the distance. Placing a gentle finger onto the scar, he felt the skin, the raised edges, the smoothness of it. He examined closely but delicately, his breathing slow and even. John flinched a bit at first contact, but smiled to let his friend know that it was okay.

“Your hands are kind of cold."

Nodding, Sherlock pulled his hand away, though kept his face close to examine the coloring of it. For a second, he debated tasting it but shook that thought from his head. John would't appreciate it and he really needed John to accept him back fully.

After a few minutes, he pulled away from the old wound and nodded again. “Thank you for letting me examine it.” 

John couldn't tell what Sherlock was thinking but it was very rare that he ever could. “It’s not a problem, mate. You could've just asked.” While he didn't proudly wear his scar like a medal, he wasn't against people seeing it. 

Another stiff nod from Sherlock was registered as John slipped the shirt over his head. Sherlock had been acting very strangely since that first day. Well, stranger than what John had been used to. He didn't ask to examine his amputation, didn't make snarky comments about the staff or what was on the television, hadn't been glued to his mobile for hours on end. He'd been...almost polite. It was making John a bit antsy.

“Sherlock, are you feeling alright? You have been acting...peculiar.” John reached over to put a hand on his forehead, but Sherlock flinched away. “I’m not going to hit you again.” However, he did retract his hand and used it to rub his the back of his head instead. 

“I don't feel like discussing it right now.” Sherlock’s face was stone, his eyes ice. John suppressed a shiver. “That’s fine. You don’t have to talk about it now.” He tried to keep him tone light but there was the implication that they would talk about it in the future.

Both men stared daggers at each other, not wanting to be the one to admit defeat. Luckily, the kind nurse had just come in. 

“Hope I’m not interrupting anything, but Mr. Watson, you are allowed to go now. All your paperwork has been taken care of.” 

That brought a smile to his face. He was going home. He was going home with Sherlock. Despite his lack of a leg, things were looking up. He let out a dark chuckle. How badly had he missed his flatmate to think that losing a limb was better than not having Sherlock?

“John? What’s so funny?” 

“Nothing, nothing. Let’s head back to the flat.”


	5. Home again, home again.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are back at the flat, simply trying to relax. Though it is a bit harder than originally though to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. Another chapter! This is starting to get more interesting, I hope. Comment and suggestions are always welcome. Not beta read and I am not British so...there may be mistakes. I apologize in advance.

The cab ride was made uncomfortable due to the crutches that were was sent home with John. His prosthetic leg wouldn't be available until the week after next, even with Mycroft’s help. “What good is he,” Sherlock had grumbled when he'd gotten the news. John simply smiled. It was nice having the Holmes brothers back into his life, even if they were both on his shit list.

Making his way up the stairs was much more complicated. Yes, he had practiced getting around without his leg at the hospital but there hadn't been stairs. Begrudgingly, he'd accepted Sherlock’s help. With one arm around his waist and John’s arm over Sherlock’s shoulders, they slowly made it up the stairs. 

Sherlock could feel the ribs beneath John’s clothes and grimaced. They had both lost a lot of weight. 

When the finally reached the top, Sherlock helped John into his chair then scurried off to retrieve the crutches that were left by the door. _It’s kind of nice being taken care off by him,_ John thought to himself. Usually, he was the one taking care of Sherlock. Though he didn't feel like he'd done such a bang up job. 

“Tea, John,” Sherlock called from the kitchen. He hadn't even noticed that Sherlock laid the crutches on the floor next to him. “Yes, that would be great.” That's odd. Sherlock didn't usually offer to make him tea. Last time he'd made John a drink, he'd put what he believed to be drugs in it. “Just tea, right? This isn't some kind of experiment, is it?”

Sherlock actually laughed. It was soft, but John could still hear it from the sitting area. “Just tea. I promise.” Even though John was still upset with him, even though it was his fault that John lost a leg, even though he had no idea what he was going to do now that his greatest nemesis was dead, Sherlock Holmes was glad to be back at 221b Baker Street. 

Plopping himself into a chair at the table, Sherlock glanced around the kitchen. It was pretty much the same except more of his experiments were missing. Not that it mattered. They'd be outdated anyway with the data worthless. He noted that there were very few food items among the cupboards and the fridge. Of course there was milk and bread and jam, but very little else. Clearly John didn't spend much time here. However, Sherlock did find some sugar. _Interesting._ John didn't normally use sugar and certainly not combined with any other ingredients found in the flat. _Why would he have any?_

Sherlock was thankful, of course. He liked his tea with sugar. But John didn't. John took his with milk. 

Deciding to ask about it, Sherlock took both cups out to where John was seated and handed him, gracefully planting into his own chair. 

A comfortable silence fell between them, like everything was back to normal. True, both knew that it was nowhere near the normal they were used to, but it was still comforting. Certainly better than being alone.

John broke the silence with a sigh. His face looked tired, his shoulders slumped. “Sherlock, what are we going to do? How are we going to get on?” Sherlock’s eyes went wide. _What's John talking about? They would get on how they always...oh..._

“You’re worried that I’ll leave you behind on cases.” It wasn't a question. Grey-green eyes peered into soft blue ones. John wanted to look away, to glance into his cup or at the floor or out the window. Hell, he'd rather be looking at his stump of a leg. But he couldn't bring himself to pull away. He'd missed those eyes. Even when it felt like they were drilling into his soul, he still loved them.

He nodded slowly. “I won’t be able to chase criminals with you. I’ll just slow you down. You’d hate it.” His voice was bitter and it left a nasty taste in his mouth.

Sherlock's face remained passive but John could tell he was thinking. After a few short moments, Sherlock opened his mouth to reply. “That's not an issue at the moment. Lestrade has informed me that there is a great deal of paperwork to sort out until I'm allowed to return to aiding their piss-poor crime solving skills. As for clients, I've not announced my return so that shouldn't be a problem. Really, we will cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

John looked confused. _Sherlock wasn't going back to work right away? Why?_ His heart lifted, just a bit. Until....

“Won’t you be bored hanging around here all the time?”

“Certainly not. I've had more than enough adventures the past three years. I could use a bit of peace and quiet.” His voice was calm and light but John could tell that the idea of remaining out of the field would drive Sherlock batty. 

They continued to sip their tea in silence once again, the sun setting slowly, casting long shadows through the windows. _Peaceful,_ John thought to himself. Except for the fact that Sherlock kept staring at him. 

“Er...have I got something on my face?” John reached up and lightly touched the right side of his mouth. He couldn't feel anything but that didn't mean there wasn't something there. Sherlock simply shook his head and looked away. _What had gotten into him?_

“Why do you have sugar in the kitchen?”

That surprised John. “It’s a staple ingredient to have on hand?” He couldn't really think of a reason. It'd been there for as long as he could remember. “Sugar doesn't go bad so I never threw it out.” 

“But you don’t use sugar. Why have you kept it for so long?”

“I just...I don’t know. It never occurred to me to throw it out.”

Sherlock’s gaze pierced John’s as he shifted uncomfortably. He knew the reason why John never threw it out. It was habit. He had gotten so used to making Sherlock tea with sugar that he'd simply continued to do so after his death. Two cups of tea, one which would never be drank. There was evidence in the kitchen, his favorite mug having been used while gone but knowing John wasn't drinking from it. He'd never had any visitors either.

So, why had John continue to make him tea? And why did this fact please Sherlock so much?


	6. Thoughts in the Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock try to sleep their first night back at the flat. Both have a bit of trouble, however.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is pretty short. Had a rough couple days. Anyway, please comment or if you have any criticism, let me know. This has not been beta read and I am not British so all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

At the end of the night Sherlock had demanded that John sleep on the couch. That way Sherlock could help out if he needed to. Of course John would have rather slept in his room but since it was upstairs it'd be a pain going up and down every day. Luckily, Sherlock was willing to bring some pyjamas down for John to change into.

It felt weird, sleeping on the couch. Normally Sherlock slept there. It wasn't uncomfortable. Just different. 

John could still catch faint wisps of Sherlock’s scent among the cushions. It was very light but made John smile. He hadn't sat on the couch since he'd lost his flatmate. It almost seemed wrong. This was Sherlock’s spot. 

“I’m being ridiculous,” John muttered quietly into his hands. He was just being sentimental due to the fact that his friend was back at the flat with him, after thinking he would never be there again. Just a surreal feeling.

It took about an hour for John to finally fall asleep. Sherlock, on the other hand, didn't sleep at all. He was currently lying in his bed, thinking. Normally this wasn't a problem. He didn't often sleep and, when he did, it tended to be on the couch. His flatmate was occupying it at the moment, however. 

His flatmate, his colleague, his friend. His best friend, if Sherlock wanted to admit it. Which he would if anybody asked. But what were these feelings he was having right now?

Sure, John was kind, brave, funny, clever, though not as clever as himself, but clever nonetheless. He was interesting. Sherlock never felt bored around him. _No one had ever been able to do that._ Sure, he still complained about being bored, but that was mostly just to annoy John. It was fun watching him react.

He was also, apparently, attractive, if his many girlfriends were any indication. He had a sort of comfortable charm. Did Sherlock find him attractive? Did Sherlock find anyone attractive? He went through his mental checklist of all the people he knew. If any of them were considered visually pleasing to him, he stored their picture to the side.

At the end of this, only one person remained. John Watson. Well, that’s not good. He couldn't be lusting after his flatmate now, could he? He _had_ been staring at him since they got back to the flat. Since he had been hospitalized, actually. But was he lusting?

Bringing back the memories of earlier that day, Sherlock pictured John, as he was sitting in his chair, drinking tea. Sherlock’s eyes roved over his face, picturing his lips pursed, trying to cool his tea before he took a sip. He pictured his eyes, blue and kind, glancing up at him over his cup. He felt his heart start to race and his mouth grow dry. A lump had formed in his throat. 

Damn! Maybe he had been lusting after his friend. But why only now? Did absence make the heart grow fonder? Had he gone mad, being away from home so long? Had he...had he always felt this way about John?

No. This was ridiculous. He was simply coming down from a high of being back in his flat with his friend. He was not interested in John like that. Rubbing his eyes and trying to clear away those silly thoughts, Sherlock glanced at the clock. It was 5:30 AM. He had been lying there, thinking about his flatmate for five hours. 

This was very not good.


	7. Field Trip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John go visit Molly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter. I'm sorry it's moving so slow. Ugh. But at least the chapters are short, right?
> 
> Anyway, please comment and if you have any suggestions, I would love to hear them. This has not been beta tested and I am still not British. So, all mistakes are mine and mine alone.

John opened his eyes to see pale green ones staring back at him. “Bloody hell!” Jerking awake, he nearly head-butted Sherlock. “What on earth are you doing? You nearly gave me a heart attack!”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. Your heart is perfectly fine for a man your age.” Sherlock waved away John’s concern and headed toward the kitchen. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Yeah, that would be...wait, what do you mean a 'man my age'? Sherlock, I’m only three years older than you! Well...four in a couple weeks, I guess.” 

The younger man simply ignored him but John could almost hear the smirk on his face. _Bastard._ He did, however, return with a tray full of eggs, toast and jam, and a cup of tea. “Wow, this looks...great. I didn't know you could cook.”

“One learns many things when trying to survive on their own. I couldn't just pop into the nearest restaurant while on the run now, could I?” This was the first Sherlock had spoken about his time away. He looked as if it didn't even occur to him. “Anyway, you'll be happy to hear that I am a magnificent cook, so you'll certainly be putting on a bit more weight.”

“Excuse me? I need to put on weight? What about you?” John gave a worried look at Sherlock’s torso, studying him with a medical eye. He was dreadfully thin. “Please tell me you'll eat with me?”

If looks could kill, John would have been dead. As brilliant as the detective was, he was also vain. He didn't like John insinuating that he wasn't looking his best. With a sigh, Sherlock went into the kitchen and returned with his own plate of eggs and toast, though much smaller portions than what he gave John. This seemed to appease the doctor and he quickly tucked into his own meal. It felt like he hadn't eaten for days, which wasn't true of course. He'd eaten at the hospital but to eat in his own flat with his best friend again...it was like heaven. _I must have a very low view of heaven then,_ he thought to himself with a chuckle. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“I was just thinking that being with you is like heaven on earth,” John joked with a chuckle. However, his companion stiffened. His mind began to race. Did John know his confused feelings? _No. John’s not that observant._ He relaxed quickly but not quick enough. 

“Is everything okay? Like I said the other day, you've been acting peculiar.” 

“It’s just strange being back at the flat, is all. Nothing to worry about.” His voice was calm and steady but a bit higher pitched than normal. He would have to work on that. Clearing his throat, Sherlock bounced out of his chair and into the kitchen. “We have a big day today, John!”

“We do?” _What could possibly be going on?_

“We are going to visit Molly at St. Bart’s. She agreed to get me some more eyeballs. And, of course, you are coming with me. Now, I’ll bring you down some clothes and you can get ready in the bathroom. I’ll wait.” With that, he rushed up to John’s bedroom and John could swear that a hurricane was blowing in his room. It was going to take him years to organize his drawers again.

With a bit of effort, John was able to make it to the bathroom, crutches and all. It was still inconvenient but it was better than sitting on his arse all day. _Would be nice to be able to have a second leg to stand on. Just two more weeks. Just in time for my birthday,_ he thought with a wry smile. 

He had started to freshen up when Sherlock opened the door, glancing at John balancing against the sink. “Here you go, now put them on and we’ll be off.” He seemed forcibly cheerful. Though, it could just be John’s imagination.

Dressed and ready to go, John headed to the front door and smiled. Sherlock was dressed in a nice pair of slacks with a dark blue shirt. The weather was warm but he had his coat on anyway. _Must just be habit._

He helped the doctor down the stairs and hailed a cab fairly quickly. Excited energy was buzzing around Sherlock. He was so ready to begin experimenting again. That would keep his mind occupied while waiting for Lestrade to allow him on cases once more. It would also distract him from his strange feelings regarding his friend.

As the cab pulled up to St. Bart’s, John exited and attempted to pay the driver. However, Sherlock got to him first. “Here you are.” He smiled at John and slowly made his way into the building. John had to hurry a bit to catch up, though thankfully Sherlock actually waited for him at the door. Curiouser and curiouser. Sherlock never paid and he always left John behind. _What had he done that he felt the need to be considerate?_

Heading to the morgue, John grimaced at the loud clacking his crutches made. It echoed through the hallways and made him self-conscious. “Are you sure your brother can’t speed along a new leg for me sooner. These crutches are so cumbersome.” Sherlock merely shrugged.

Molly greeted the two with a shy smile. She hadn't seen John in ages and apologized for not being able to tell him about Sherlock. John returned the smile and told her it was okay. “I understand. It's fine. Don't worry about it.” His face was light and he was breathing easily. It was nice to see Molly's friendly face again.

She smiled and turned back to Sherlock, who had rushed over to the fridge where he knew Molly kept the body parts for him. “It seems strange to have him around, isn't it? So full of energy. His...hair is rather long though.” Sherlock hadn't tied it back this morning and John saw just how long it really was. 

If fell to between his shoulder blades, wavy and dark. Like a sea of satin, it seemed to flow. It looked nice, if not a bit odd.

“Sherlock, when was the last time you had a haircut?” The taller man turned around and ran a finger through his locks. “That would be...three years ago. In April.” He turned back to the fridge.

Molly and John stared at him, surprised that he was able to remember the month. John shrugged. “If it doesn't bother him, I guess it doesn't bother me. He kind of looks like that villain from Avengers.” Molly giggled. “He would be the clever villain, wouldn't he. 

They both erupted with giggles after that, disturbing Sherlock. “What's so funny?” He looked serious but that just caused the other two to start laughing even harder. He really did look like a super villain.

“It’s nothing. Are you ready to go?” John smiled, trying to calm himself. He hadn't laughed this much since...well, he couldn't even remember. It didn't matter, he was happy now.

Sherlock nodded and thanked Molly for the eyes, although it seemed he had pocketed a couple fingers as well. As they headed out the door, John could hear Molly checking the contents of her fridge, realizing something else had been taken along with the eyes. “Hey!” The cry was heard as they stepped into the lobby, both giggling like old times.


	8. Chinese food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lunch and an insult.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh. I am the worst. Super short chapter after almost two months of nothing. Life has been....weird.
> 
> Anyway, back to business.

The cab ride back to Baker Street was quiet except for the sloshing of eyeballs in a jar. The cabbie certainly didn't approve, but he said nothing. As they reached the flat, Sherlock asked the driver and John to wait a moment before running into the flat to deposit his goodies. 

He returned shortly and gave the driver a new address. “There is a new Chinese place that I'd like to try out,” he explained when John gave him a curious look.

As per the usual when Sherlock picked restaurants, the place was delicious, if not a bit more pricey than normal. They ate mostly in companionable silence. Even Sherlock took more than three bites. 

“Hey, I know I keep asking this but are you sure everything's fine? Because I want you to be able to tell me if something’s wrong. I’m your friend after all.”

Sherlock set his fork down and looked up at John. “Everything is fine, John. It’s just...I’m not used to the normality of it all. I was running around the globe killing criminals for god sake. I had to keep my eyes and ears open for any sign of an attack. Being able to...relax and not have to worry about my life...it’s different. Not that I miss it,” he quickly added for John’s benefit. “But I’m still trying to process everything.”

Sherlock looked old, too old for a man in his thirties. This was a man that had seen things, horrible things. And John could more than sympathize. He had been there, seen more death and suffering than any one should. That just meant he was more capable of helping his friend with the healing process.

John nodded, his eyes kind and warm. Sherlock had missed those eyes. They were his anchor in the sea of chaos that raged in his mind. “I understand. It is different. And even though I lost my leg, I’d rather have you here than it.” John reached across the table and grabbed Sherlock’s hand, giving it a squeeze before releasing it once again. Sherlock felt his heart flutter slightly.

They finished their meal and headed out to the street, hailing a cab. “How do you always get one so quickly?” John never had any luck with cabbies. “A confident, well-dressed man is much more appealing to pick up than a rowdy, bar hopping, commoner.”

John opened and closed his mouth a few times before sputtering a response.“Did you just call me a rowdy commoner?” Sherlock simply laughed and helped John into the cab.


	9. Happy birthday!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John receives his new limb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, longer chapter. Again, this is has not been beta read and I am not British so I hope I'm not butchering it too badly.
> 
> Comments are always welcome! Or complaints, I just want feedback.

The next two weeks had been a blur of boring. John had been confined to the couch, thanks to Sherlock. Other than his check-up at the hospital and a few more trips to see Molly, he had been stuck at the flat. His back was starting to ache from all the sitting he was doing, though he managed to practice getting around with and without the crutches. Sherlock, of course, refused to let him attempt the stairs to his bedroom.

“I haven’t been up there in over a month! I’m going stir-crazy here.” Sherlock merely shrugged and went back to his experiments. 

The eyeballs had lasted two days, the fingers only a day and a half. He then bullied Molly into giving him a gallon of blood, forty-three toenails, and a bag of human hair, blonde, the same shade as John's, who found it very creepy.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was not bored at all. The aforementioned experiments had lasted a while but those were not what kept him sane. 

What was keeping him from shooting the walls was the mystery of his feelings toward one John Watson. After many sleepless nights, Sherlock had accepted that he had feelings for John, that he wanted to become intimate with John. Normally, he would have thrust those kind of thoughts from his head. It had been a long time since he was involved with anyone in that way. And none of those “relationships” contained the warmth that he felt when he thought of John. 

Now, the question was, how was he going to convince his flatmate that they should start a romantic relationship? 

Finally, July seventh rolled around. The day that John was promised his new limb. It would take some getting used to but John was happy to be rid of those damned crutches. It also happened to be his fortieth birthday.

He had woken up that morning to four texts. One from each Harry, Lestrade, Molly, and Sarah, who was now a close friend. His eyes crinkled and he felt warmth blossom in his chest. Although he wasn't sure how Molly knew it was his birthday.

“John! You’re awake. Good.” Sherlock had flung himself into the sitting room from the kitchen. “Mycroft will be delivering your new leg in an hour, so you should probably freshen up. You have drool all around your mouth.” Sherlock announced, ever sensitive to people’s feelings. 

“You know, you could say happy birthday or something.” His brow wrinkled with a bit of frustration, a bit of a huff in his voice.

“Is it your birthday? I hadn't noticed,” Sherlock replied, sounding as if the whole idea of birthdays bored him to tears. _Like hell he didn't notice_ , John thought bitterly to himself. It wasn't a big deal, it just would have been nice for his friend to care about his birthday. 

It didn't matter. John heaved himself onto his one leg and crutches, swearing under his breath that he was going to melt them down after today, an empty threat, and made his way to the bathroom. Sherlock had already laid out his clothes for him and it made his heart flutter a bit at the kindness of it. Why was his heart doing that? Weird. 

Shaking his head, John managed to hop his way into the tub to shower. It was getting easier to balance on one leg. At first he had to take only baths but he grew tired of that rather quickly. For some reason, Sherlock kept barging in, claiming he was worried that John had drowned. Even when he locked the door, his madman of a flatmate would pick it. So John learned quickly how to remain stable by only standing on his right leg.

He exited the bathroom, showered and dressed, to find Mycroft sitting in his chair with Sherlock seated across from him, looking irritable. He always got that way around his brother. 

With a sigh, John seated himself, once again, on the couch. “Nice to see you again, Mycroft. I’d offer you tea but Sherlock has insisted that the kitchen was off-limits while I’m unstable.” He glared at Sherlock for a moment. 

“That won’t be necessary, John. I’m only here to see that the limb I have brought for you fits properly.” He motioned to a box on the coffee table. John hadn't even noticed it.  
It was even wrapped in gold and red paper, a lovely red bow on top. _That's strange,_ he thought to himself.

Carefully, he opened the box and pulled out the prosthetic. It was high quality, certainly made to benefit an athlete. “Oh my god. This is...not at all what they showed me at the hospital. I can’t afford this.”

“Think of it as a gift. Happy birthday, John.” Mycroft actually smiled, not one of his patronizing smiles, but a genuine one. John couldn't believe it. Looking at the instructions that had been provided for him, John was able to apply the limb to his stump of a leg. He was a doctor after all.

It fit perfectly. 

“Thank you. This is fantastic.” Luckily, John had kept his cane, just in case. He asked Sherlock to bring it downstairs for him. Sherlock was reluctant to leave John alone with his brother, but rose gracefully and made his way to flatmate's room.

“John, I hope you don’t mind, but I was hoping to ask you a quick question.” John’s throat clenched. It was never good when Mycroft wanted to ask something.

“If I may, what are your...feelings toward my younger brother?” He spoke the word ‘feelings’ as if it were a curse.

“My feelings toward Sherlock? He’s my best friend, my mate. Why do you ask?” John felt apprehensive. He had told the truth but it didn't feel like enough. Was there something more to their relationship he didn't realize? _No, no, I’m not in a relationship with him. He’s just my friend. My good, good friend._

“I just hope that you realize how much you mean to him, is all. He cares about you greatly. And though he usually is a terrible judge of character, based off of what I have seen in the past, you are a good influence on him. You make him into a better person. I just hope you see him as he sees you.”

John’s heart was beating fast, his mind racing. What did Mycroft mean? Sherlock knew how John felt about him. They both cared for one another. That was normal for best friends. Right?

Thankfully, Sherlock came crashing down the stairs. “What were you talking about down here? I heard your voices.”

“It’s nothing, brother dear. Just wishing John good luck with the new leg. I’ll be off now.” And with that, Mycroft Holmes, the British government, was gone. Leaving John and Sherlock looking awkwardly at each other.


End file.
